


love/death/life doesn't discriminate

by unhookingstarswithoutpermission



Series: exr week 2016 [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Burr!Grantaire, Day 2: Liberate, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjoltaire Week 2016, Grantaire pov, Hamilton AU, Hamilton!Enjolras, Loads of pining, M/M, Mutual Pining, exr week 2016, grantaire is sad, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7116883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhookingstarswithoutpermission/pseuds/unhookingstarswithoutpermission
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Why are you joining the war?”, Grantaire cuts in, sharp and precise like a knife. [...]</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“We are fighting for freedom, we are fighting for our right to have a better nation where we can-” he starts ranting, almost excited like he was the night before, his eyes glistening in the light. Grantaire loses a moment watching the way the sunrays reflect on his irises, transfixed, but he's quick to interrupt him: “You are going to die, you talk of nothing-” </i>
  <br/>
  <i>“Then why are you fighting?” Enjolras hisses, poisonous, then he turns around and leaves.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>or, the one where there's a revolution coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love/death/life doesn't discriminate

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I managed to write day 2 as well? What? And it's actually quite long (it was supposed to be like 1,3 k lol)?  
> Seriously, I'm kinda happy with this - even if I'm sure I've made a lot of grammar mistakes - and if I had time I'd like to write more of this AU, let me know if you like this idea (?)  
> Also, thanks to everyone on twitter who supported me and gave me their opinion, I really appreciated it even if I didn't quite follow it ops  
> Idk what else to say, I'm uploading once again at 11.30 in the evening I'm tired

Grantaire has never quite grasped the concept of freedom: it's way too blurry and way too complicated, it's not like he can point at something and say, yes, that is freedom. He knows well enough that nearly nothing human can be labelled and idealised as an universal concept, and he doesn't care about naming sensations and feelings and volatile, stupid things that won't ever be perfect or complete, so he simply doesn't think about it. He doesn't ask questions either, because that's simply the way he was raised, believing anything that couldn't be found or contained in a book was useless and just not worth the stress.

Freedom is a word people like to use, he discovers: they all seem to be talking about it, wherever he goes, whoever he meets. He hears his dad's friends discussing about whether they need or not to be politically free, he overhears his mother whispering low and broken to her sister how lucky she is to be free of any marriage bonds, he listens to their servants painting the concept in metaphors of birds flying and horses running. It's a word everyone seems to love, but it's nearly non-existent in the books he's studying: he finds it written in ancient languages when he translates myths and legends, but it's so rarely mentioned in the books that explain chemistry and maths and science, the ones his father says “are reserved to men”. Even though the latter are just wasted on him, completely ignorant in all that's related to maths, he just ends up believing that the books he enjoys reading are feminine, therefore probably lying. At least, this is what he's told.

 

His father dies on a rainy day, and when Grantaire is told about the tragic incident that occurred to him his mind is brought back to the Greek verses he had memorised for no apparent reasons, the ones where Telemachus searches desperately for his father. He reprimands himself for being so stupid, but he can't erase the fact that he feels no pain whatsoever, just a remote aching for memories he doesn't remember clearly. He wishes for his mother's voice to be there, telling him stories while running her fingers through his hair, making the memories a bit less hazy and a lot kinder. The perfume she used just on Sundays lingers on her bed, and it's odd how persistent it is, considering she has been gone for almost an year now. Her death hadn't left him numb like this, her death had tore him to pieces and thrown him on the ground. His father hadn't approved of his grief.

Only on the funeral day he feels utterly lost, alone in the world. People clad in black and grey clothings reach him where he sits, in front of his father's grave, and they tell him they are sorry, that his father was a grand man, that he didn't deserve this. He doesn't permit himself to think that he did.

Someone says that he's free now, free to do whatever he pleases with his life, and for a moment – for a couple of hours – that seems true, and he doesn't feel guilty when he understands that is the reason why his heart feels so much lighter. However, he reads that his father's last wish was for him to finish his studies as quickly as possible.

He graduates in two years time.

 

The war isn't exactly unexpected, when it eventually comes. Grantaire has always suspected it would, because that's the way the world is: wars are fought in the name of freedom while people are made slaves and forced to fight, and so on. After all he has realised long, long time ago that it's possible for wars to end for good only in the books his father didn't want him to read. He does read them, now, after he has realised that things meant for men are not always the best and, mostly, are not always meant _just_ for men. He has found papers in his mother's drawer, where he has always been to afraid to look after her death, papers and essays and explanations that are utterly brilliant. His chest still aches when he wanders in his enormous house and reaches the area where his mother was used to live, prisoner in her own house.

Grantaire decides to fight in this war because he has to. He would lie if he said claiming as his only the things he cherishes and leaving hadn't felt liberating. He doesn't care if he will die in the fight and the house will be left on its own; _let it rot_ , he thinks.

New York is a wonderful city even during the night, when you can't see where you're going and you have to be particularly careful if you're walking downtown. The air is not cold in the slightest and he walks slowly, already forgetting about his house and his possessions, even though they weigh on his chest like they are made of lead. They have become another of the chains that keep him grounded and still, along with guilt and grief and anger, and he welcomes them – he has to. But what he hasn't is the strength to deal with them, so he decides that blurring his thoughts in between the fumes of alcohol is the most merciful thing he can do.

He stops at the first pub he encounters, places himself at the further end and reads under the light of candles until his head hurts both from the beers and his tired eyes. He hasn't realised how long it has been since he entered, but then he sees that most people have left and that only students are still drinking. He raises to his feet, hoping to go out unnoticed but, thanks to his luck, he hears a semi-familiar voice calling him.

It's weird to think that there are men his age who are still in school, especially when said men remember him from the few classes they attended together. Bahorel calls him once again and he doesn't ignore him, recalling how he had seemed approachable and even friendly when they were studying together. He shakes his hand and Grantaire has to use all of his will not to recoil from his touch – he is not used to human contact anymore. Bahorel talks and talks and talks, until he eventually persuades him to grab a last beer with him and _the others_ , he calls them, leading him to their table.

_The others_ are three young men, probably around his age, at various levels of drunkenness. He recognises two of them, Courfeyrac and Combeferre, who grew up near him uptown, but they both seem too focused on something else to even acknowledge him. He turns his attention towards what they're watching.

A man is standing on a table, maybe not that drunk yet but definitely excited, shouting about politics and immigration and _freedom_ ; Grantaire doesn't know how he manages to let that word fit at least twice in each and every one of his sentences. He talks at an incredible speed, almost like he's in trance, and his cheeks are dark with the heat of the moment. Grantaire glances at him maybe too carefully, noticing the long, blond hair that flows all the way down to his shoulders and his short stature – maybe that's why he felt the need to climb up a table. Grantaire exhales and whispers, “I definitely need a beer now”.

Bahorel's laughter roars all around the room and that makes the three men turn around and face him, and, before he can put the situation into focus, the short guy has hopped down the table and is now offering him an hand. “I'm Enjolras”, he announces when Grantaire shakes it. When he says his name the blond man jumps, actually jumps, and says a bit too loudly, “You're the one who graduated from Princeton college in two years! How'd you do it?”

Grantaire doesn't like to talk about his life, but he's cornered by all the group of men now and one of them is handing him a beer, so it only seems fair that he starts narrating, cutting out all the parts when the story gets too sad or too pitiable. When they are ushered out the bar, the sun is almost fully up and he is not over yet, even if Enjolras is the only one who's actually still listening to him. Only then, when they depart, he realises he has nowhere to spend the night and Enjolras just smirks.

 

The next morning, he wakes up very disoriented and with a blatant headache, on a minuscule bed in a very tiny room. The sun is high in the sky and the light is almost blinding, yet it's not nearly as annoying as the persistent knocking on his door; Grantaire rises his head, then he thinks _fuck this shit_ and manages to struggle a “Come in” before hiding his face into the pillow again.

Hesitant steps makes their way into the room, until they stop right near his bed. “Good morning”, Enjolras says, voice clear and sharp, and Grantaire just muffles a discontented noise without even turning his head.

“I've brought you some water”, he tries again, and Grantaire can feel his shoulder tense: he's not used at all to random act of kindness. “Since you're basically my roommate now”, Enjolras continues, and that has him shooting up into a sitting position so fast his head spins and he has to close his eyes. An huff of laughters comes out of Enjolras' lips as he bites on them, trying and failing to suppress it, but he hands out the glass of water. Grantaire placidly takes it. “Since when are we basically roommates?”, he asks, barely acknowledging he might sound rude – Enjolras doesn't seem to mind. “Well, you need a place to stay and I don't have the money to afford a room on my own, and we are both in need of somewhere to spend the night until we go to war, so-”

“Why are you joining the war?”, Grantaire cuts in, sharp and precise like a knife. He might have talked a lot the night before but Enjolras had as well, and he's a great listener.

“Well, why wouldn't I!” he responds, and his voice seems indignant, as if that's the stupidest question he has ever heard.

Grantaire is, to say the least, incredulous. “You could die, and you don't have to do this.”, he states, because it's true: Enjolras has no legacy, no name to live up to, he's not even American.

“We are fighting for freedom, we are fighting for our right to have a better nation where we can-” he starts ranting, almost excited like he was the night before, his eyes glistening in the light. Grantaire loses a moment watching the way the sunrays reflect on his irises, transfixed, but he's quick to interrupt him: “You are going to die, you talk of nothing-”

“Then why are you fighting?” Enjolras hisses, poisonous, then he turns around and leaves. Grantaire is left staring at the door.

He doesn't leave because no one asks him to, but he doesn't bother Enjolras either, because he knows fury when he sees it and he doesn't want to argue with anyone, let alone a barely-adult who believes in the power of freedom and of the people.

He's quite surprised when Enjolras returns, a week after their argument, and somehow manages to ignore completely the fact Grantaire's been wearing the same clothes for two days straight. He stands out of the room this time, leaning against the doorframe, and he doesn't even make a noise until Grantaire raises his eyes from the book he was reading and sees him. Only then he raises an eyebrow and says, “I bet you've never been downtown”.

They go there in the afternoon, when Grantaire isn't usually even out of his bed yet, and for the first time he finds himself quite interested in what Enjolras is saying. He's rambling as per usual about the way freedom would affect this people, how they could raise up and become something more – they could live better, he says. Grantaire takes his wrist and makes him sit on the first bench they find, because he doesn't want neither to see him buzzing with energy – it makes him sick – nor to look at him at all – he doesn't like the way his chest feels warm when he does. Then, he starts talking. “The world you describe could work in theory, Enjolras, but this is not an utopia – this is the reality. Look over there, do you see those kids? When I was their age I couldn't even stand straight, yet they have to, because there's no one to help them. And look at those girls – they are not older than sixteen, but they have to sell themselves to survive, while the other ones – the ones with the beautiful dresses, on our right – are eighteen and they have only learned to sew, probably. And we stand here talking while men our age work down the road and in the shops, and it's not fair, but you know what? That's the way things go”.

Enjolras is looking at him with wide eyes, surprise and realisation plain on his face, and he seems oh so young – Grantaire has the worst feeling for a second, he just wants to make that broken expression disappear from his face, and he wants to kiss him so badly, and he's going to do it right now- “That's why I fight”, Enjolras murmurs, and he doesn't hold his gaze.

Grantaire snaps out the rush of the moment and he feels like an idiot – he's not supposed to feel certain things. “That's why I don't”, he states, and he leaves.

That night he finds a notebook on the table in his room, and when he opens it he reads the words “if you stand for nothing, R, what will you fight for?” scrambled on the first page.

 

A month goes by, then another: living with Enjolras is not a nightmare anymore. He usually sits on the chair in the corner of the little kitchen they share and he studies there, he writes and writes and writes like it's the only thing that matters to him. Grantaire, meanwhile, makes himself at home on the floor – he's picked up drawing, and he's learning slowly, sketching what surrounds him: one day it's their poor library, one day it's the table, one day it's Enjolras' fingers curled around a book.

Sometimes, in the dead of the night, Grantaire catches himself wondering how his fingers would feel curled around his arms, his hips, a little lower. He recoils from these thoughts in the daylight but he embraces them at night time, when there is no one there to judge – sometimes he thinks about what his father would say. When he does, he ends up locking himself in his room for days. Luckily, Enjolras has learned how to talk him out of his bad mood.

They fight on a daily basis, because Enjolras is too naïve and kind and ingenuous and Grantaire simply can not stand to see him that vulnerable. Their friends are usually there and they pick either one side or the other; they have learned that Courfeyrac usually tends to side with Enjolras, while Combeferre usually says that Grantaire is right, but he also says he's too cynic – that usually has Grantaire rolling his eyes. R is also sided by their neighbour, a very poor girl who's raising her brother on her own and tells them her name is Eponine; she is fierce and strong as steel, even though she's what people call an “easy woman”. They are wrong, Eponine is not easy, she burns like fire and she just has to do what she can to carry on.

Their little apartment becomes the place where they all are at home, and it's so easy to forget there's a war waiting for them.

It's not so easy anymore when a letter finds them all in that same room, claiming them for the fight. Eponine does not budge an inch when they tell her, she decides to make them some tea and she adds a lot more brandy, just for good measure.

They don't talk about the future at all that night.

Later, when everyone is gone and the sun is rising, Grantaire finds himself sitting on his bed, a page of his notebook torn to pieces in his hands. Tears rush down his cheeks and he doesn't hide them, he doesn't need to, because he knows Enjolras gets it. Everything is golden around them, and Enjolras throws himself in his arms and kisses him madly, deeply, like it's their last night on earth – and then, Grantaire is running away.

When Enjolras picks up the torn page, there's a sketch of a pair of hands holding a letter and the word _freedom_ is cruelly carved into the skin of the wrists.

 

They are to fight tomorrow, this much they know. They have told them just this piece of information, they consider it essential, because soldiers should probably write to their mothers or their wives and inform them of their last day, of their last breath.

Neither Grantaire nor Enjolras have anyone to write to, so they spend the evening in the tent they share, even on the battlefield, and for a second they feel at home.

Enjolras looks at him through his long eyelashes and goes, “I wanted to tell you-”

“Ah ah”, Grantaire interrupts him, suppressing a sob in order to seem sure, composed, “if this an 'if I die tomorrow' speech, I don't want to hear it”.

“You are the one who said we are going to die”, he replies quietly, knitting his brows.

“I don't care!” Grantaire says, and a sigh escapes his lips, and he needs to get out of here before he starts crying. He's not fast enough though, and Enjolras is already by his side, handing out to him a piece of paper.

“I kept it”, he whispers while Grantaire unfolds it carefully.

“Enj-”

“I can not grant you freedom, Grantaire, at least not the way you want it-”

“Enj-”

“- but I can try, I swear I will try, and I don't care if it's pathetic-”

“Enjol-”

“- and if I die tomorrow I want you to know, because you deserve to-”

“Enjolras”, Grantaire shivers, and he caresses his cheek, shutting him up for good, “Enjolras, you did”.

“What?”

“Set me free”.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Do you think I should write more about this AU or was this a terrible idea?  
> come say hi on [tumblr](http://unhookingstarswithoutpermission.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/imonthetardis)!


End file.
